


ding dong, what is wrong?

by thechandrian



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff without Plot, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:59:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechandrian/pseuds/thechandrian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire attempt to comfort each other but they're awkward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Les Mis. No harm intended, no profit made. I take extreme liberties with canon.
> 
> Based off of the tumblr post "whenever youre sad imagine your icon descending from the heavens and gently whispering “ding dong what is wrong” in your ear"
> 
> found here: http://solluxtopus.tumblr.com/post/47107165591

It was a particularly tension-filled evening in the Café Musain as the _amis_ returned from an unsuccessful demonstration that had been violently broken up by the national guard. Enjolras insisted that it would be a good idea for them to pass out pamphlets in the richer half of the city. He’d said that the more privileged minority would find it in their hearts to join the revolution, and that deep down everyone wanted freedom. His exact words were, “they will come when we call.”

Although the people did seem moderately interested in what Enjolras and the rest of the _amis_ were selling so passionately, the police were less impressed. They surrounded the _amis_ with guns and threatened that if they didn’t pack up the show, there would be heavy costs. Enjolras had no choice but to take the _amis_ back to the café to regroup. Overall, the protest was unsuccessful and hardly any pamphlets were distributed.

Grantaire watched as Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Joly went into the back room to tend to their wounds. They weren’t severe, but they figured it was better to be safe than sorry. Plus, Joly was a doctor and on the way back he had taken one look at the small scrapes on some of their arms and went on an entire tirade about the myriad of diseases that could be swimming through their blood streams.

Grantaire thought about oysters. He hated oysters. He also hated these protests and thought they were absurdly pointless. Why should Enjolras and the rest of the _amis_ risk their lives for the sake of a populace that didn’t care one way or the other about freedom? Why did Enjolras believe that people who aren’t impoverished would care about those that were? It was ridiculous. It was typical Enjolras, always wanting to see the good in everyone.

 _Everyone except me_ , Grantaire thought, bitterly.

R looked over at Enjolras, who was sitting at a table near the back of the café. Although he appeared to be reading a book, R knew better. He could see Enjolras was shaking slightly, still tightly wound and distressed from the encounter with the police. R knew how much danger they were in whenever they went out to protest, and he knew that Enjolras took responsibility for each of the _amis_ and blamed himself whenever something happened to them, even if it was only something small.

Grantaire decided then that he needed to cheer Enjolras up. After all, his Apollo was absolutely amazing in every single way and didn’t deserve to be sad for even a moment. He took a long swig of wine for confidence, and sauntered over.

When he reached the table, he leaned against it slightly, casting a shadow on the book that Enjolras was pretending to read. Still, Enjolras did not look up.

“Ding dong, what is wrong,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras looked up, an expression of bewilderment on his face. Grantaire struggled not to laugh at his complete confusion.

He raised an eyebrow, “Sorry, what did you say?”

“What is wrong, Apollo?”

“That’s not what you said,” Enjolras insisted.

Grantaire took a seat across from Enjolras, knowing that Enjolras wouldn’t invite him to sit down.

“You shouldn’t be so hard on yourself, Apollo,” Grantaire said, looking into Enjolras’s blue eyes, “Nothing bad happened. Everyone’s safe.”

“Nothing bad happened?” Enjolras said, although he didn’t sound angry. Just sad. Grantaire’s heart broke to hear him sound so hopeless. “The police shut down our protest, and they’ll do it again. They have complete power over us.”

“They don’t,” Grantaire insisted, although he knew Enjolras was right. He had, in fact, brought up that exact point at several meetings, earning a look of annoyance from Enjolras. “We were able to hand out a few pamphlets. The people will read them, they’ll pass them onto friends, friends will say ‘This sounds great, freedom for everyone’, and so goes the revolution.”

Enjolras once again raised his eyebrow, “You don’t believe in the people.”

“I believe in you,” Grantaire said, earning a small smile from Enjolras.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _You are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying._ ”

It was the night of the revolution, only a few hours until, and Grantaire could not get Enjolras’s words out of his head. They were spoken with such nonchalance, with such disregard, as though Enjolras honestly did not believe that Grantaire was good for anything except drinking and making sarcastic remarks.

Grantaire took a long drink out of his bottle of wine, and muttered, “Enjolras hates me.”

“What was that, mate?” a random voice said.

Grantaire looked up to see Courfeyrac standing above him, holding a chair.

“Nothing,” said Grantaire, not in the mood to talk with any of the _amis_ right now. In fact, he didn’t feel like doing much besides drinking himself into a coma. He certainly didn’t feel prepared or motivated for a revolution. Perhaps Enjolras really was right about him.

“Well, get ready! The revolution is upon us! The people’s freedom is nigh!” Courfeyrac said, walking off with his chair.

Grantaire would have scornfully laughed at his friend’s optimism if he wasn’t certain that this would be the last time he ever saw him alive. Grantaire couldn’t stand knowing that every single person he had ever called his friend would be dying, violently and pointlessly, before the sun set the following day. The idea made him want to sob.

“Grantaire.”

He would have recognized that voice anywhere. Grantaire looked up to see Enjolras walking towards him. He usual gait of confidence was gone, replaced with a hesitance that looked odd on his composed friend. Grantaire couldn’t imagine why Enjolras was seeking him out again. He had already made it clear exactly what he thought about Grantaire and his uses.

“Hey, Apollo,” Grantaire said casually. It wasn’t until he tried to speak that he realized how choked his voice was with tears. He hoped Enjolras wouldn’t notice.

Enjolras sat down beside Grantaire and looked into his eyes. He definitely noticed.

They sat in silence for a while, resting against the barricade, neither really knowing what to say.

Finally, Enjolras broke the silence, asking in a soft voice, “ding dong, what is wrong?”

Grantaire looked at Enjolras incredulously.

“Did you just—” He started but couldn’t finish as he saw Enjolras’s face break into a smile. Grantaire couldn’t help the laughter that came from him then, joined shortly by Enjolras who probably also couldn’t believe that he’d used R’s ridiculous phrase.

“Sorry,” Enjolras said, after their laughter died down.

“It’s okay,” Grantaire said, still smiling, “it’s a phrase that doesn’t get enough love.”

“I mean, for everything. For what I said earlier.” Enjolras rested his hand atop Grantaire’s, hoping that physical contact would help emphasize his apology. It was awkward and shy, and so unlike Enjolras.

Grantaire looked down stupidly at their hands, unbelieving that this could really be happening.

“Don’t apologize, Apollo. You were probably right.”

Enjolras stood up then, looking into the sun as it set behind the barricade, then down to where Grantaire remained sitting.

“I don’t think I was,” Enjolras said, “I believe in you, Grantaire.”


End file.
